


“I will not celebrate.”

by ren_savior



Category: Bungo Stray Dogs
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other, Sad atsushi, atsushi coming to terms with the headmasters death, basically just him moving on lol, just atsushi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:53:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27692395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ren_savior/pseuds/ren_savior
Summary: “Death is a celebration of the life once lived”Whoever said that was completely wrong, death is not joyful, or worthy of a celebratory-like ceremony. Death is not a tango, and no suicide is beautiful; it is a stumbling, stuttering limp into eternal nothingness.Death causes unresolved potholes that could've been filled if it hadn't happened. When someone dies, everything you've ever wanted to say to them will eventually be poured onto their gravestone like spilled milk. Trying to fill them yourself. Though they won't hear, as they are six feet under with maggot infested ears.—————Atsushi comes to terms with his past abuse and the headmasters death.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	“I will not celebrate.”

**Author's Note:**

> Just wanted to write about the conflict of past abuse and a dead parent and decided atsushi fit the role well enough lol
> 
> apologies if the grammar is wrong i never proof read cuz that’s for losers👓🤏🤨

“Death is a celebration of the life once lived”

  
  


Whoever said that was completely wrong, death is not joyful, or worthy of a celebratory-like ceremony. Death is not a tango, and no suicide is beautiful; it is a stumbling, stuttering limp into eternal nothingness. 

Death causes unresolved potholes that could've been filled if it hadn't happened. When someone dies, everything you've ever wanted to say to them will eventually be poured onto their gravestone like spilled milk. Trying to fill them yourself. Though they won't hear, as they are six feet under with maggots in their ears. 

Some days death doesn't feel real.

Some days Atsushi still sees him looking over his shoulder ready to reprimand him. But he's not swift enough to catch him when he looks back. 

Though his heart has stopped, he lives on inside the tiger like boy. His words etched into his brain. Ingraining his pattern of living.

Although the chains are broken, the iron cuffs still remain on his wrists, they hurt still. Even though he is free, it doesn't feel like it.

Some nights, he's too terrified to sleep with the lights off. Terrified that his shadow will come to loom over his defenseless figure if he does. He always came at night.

So, he keeps them on.

Some days he will hear a knock on the door, and scatter to the closet to hide in fear of his sudden arrival. So he double locks it.

Sometimes he can feel his rough breath whispering in his ear as he watches the sunset, so he goes inside. Hiding from the world in which that man's ghost-like form may wander.

Sometimes out of the corner of his eye he’ll see his white asylum-like clothing. His heart will skip over itself; and his chest cave in on itself, drowning on its own life supply, greedily grasping for more as if it was punctured, and trying to balance out the constant loss of air.

When the grim reaper arrived to reveal the news through velvet curtains, he didn't cry. He didn't lash out in anger, he didn't giggle in triumph or joy. He didn't do anything. He didn't know what to feel. 

How were you supposed to feel in that situation..?

Your abuser, dead.

Not only your abuser, but the closest thing to a parent I had. 

He was akin to a father.

_“But he hurt you?”_

Yes.

“ _He drowned your crops, yet you still let him run free in your garden?_ ”

He's the reason my flowers are still blooming above the water. The reason I fight to live.

_“Did you love him..?”_

I do not know.

Then.

He cried.

He mourned for him, his abuser. His father. The only parent he's ever had in his life. Gone.

Does this mean he's free from the past that grips him by the neck now?

Can he celebrate his newly found and complete freedom through this man's death?

No, he doesn’t think he’ll ever ultimately disappear.

There's something that will forever plague his mind, a door that is perpetually sealed shut. As the one who holds the key to the lock has perished from the living.

_Why was he coming to visit him?_

His death, a gruesome one at that, Was from a car smashing into him like a bat to a glass bottle.

_He had seen him in the paper, and wanted to congratulate him..?_

It seemed out of character, _too_ phony, _too_ shady. 

He knew of his ability, as he had reminded him that he was a monster consistently. He knew his power yet he had come to talk to him?

Did he have a death wish?

Why the change of heart?

One side of him was bitter. Wanting nothing to do with him, but the small part in the back of his brain whispered to him.

  
  


_“What if he wanted to reconcile with you?”_

Did he feel guilt for what he did? Could they have really built a good relationship?

Though just barely a mutter it shivered out,

  
  


_“Is it possible you could have gotten a loving dad..?”_

  
  
  
  


He cried for what could have been, he cried for what had been, the abuse, he cried for himself, he cried for his sickly past, he cried for his abuser and he cried for his father. He cried for everything.

Some days, his death doesn't seem real. But his engraved headstone does. 

  
  


Sometimes he can feel his breath whispering over his ear, but its just the wind.

  
  


Some days he will feel his shadow, or catch a glimpse of his infamous clothing. And he will not turn back to search for him.

Some days he will fear the creeping of his looming figure once the lights cease, and he will carry on to flip the light switch.

Some days he will hear a knock on the door, and know it's not him.

He does not double lock it anymore.

Though he will keep a night light on some nights, Though he will shiver at the winds whistles, though that man will never be completely gone from his mind, he is gone. Although he is free and happy.

  
  


He will never celebrate his death.

  
  


Death is not a celebration, and it never will be.


End file.
